


Our Days Are On Fire

by Jiksa



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: There’s no more luck for them after this, no more time, no more anything after tonight.Or, Tommy has nightmares after they get off the boat, as he and Alex wait for their next assignments.





	Our Days Are On Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Dunkirk_Little_Ships_Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Dunkirk_Little_Ships_Fest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**   
>  _Tommy feels a sense of guilt over what happened to Gibson. Alex tries to help him feel better._
> 
> Not sure it _quite_ fits the prompt — I tried, and then it accidentally went somewhere else. Unbeta'd.
> 
> [Английский перевод](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5944364)!

It’s right there, under the surface, humming inside him like an undetonated bomb, like one of those German _Schrapnellmines_ he saw exploding in the fields between Lille and Dunkirk; volatile and waiting and just begging to tear everything apart.

Alex can’t sleep too close to the entrance or too far from an exit. Tommy can’t really sleep at all. 

Most nights, Tommy sits back against the wall of the makeshift barracks, keeping an eye on the door and an ear out for trouble. The Jerries are coming for them, sure as anything, if not tonight then the next night, or the one after that. It’s only a matter of time before London falls, no matter what Churchill’s told the papers.

They got lucky making it out of Dunkirk; they won’t get that lucky again.

Tommy tries to time his own breathing to the steady rise and fall of Alex’s chest, tries in vain to slow the frantic pounding of his heart. Alex’s hands clench and unclench while he sleeps, like he’s reaching for someone in his dreams — but at least he sleeps.

Tommy can only nod off for what feels like seconds before he’s waking up again in a cold sweat, with Alex’s firm hand over his mouth and a hissed _it’s not real, you’re okay, you're safe_ in his ear. There’s been too much flesh exploding into pieces in front of him, too many dead men falling to the ground around him, too many bloated, lifeless bodies bobbing in the tide rising at his feet, for it not to feel real. It’s real. He still can’t get the smell of blood and salt water and burning oil out of his nose. It’s never not going to feel real. 

One of the lads from the boat, the blue jacket with the blonde hair, keeps saying it’ll pass soon enough. He doesn’t look like he means it, though.

Some nights Alex wakes up gasping, his hands reaching out for someone that isn’t there anymore, and Tommy holds his gaze until Alex averts his own. They don’t talk about it.

They should be dead by all accounts. Dunkirk should’ve killed them, or the torpedo, or the waves, or the planes, or the oil catching fire. They’re on borrowed time; they both know it. If it wasn’t for Gibson, they’d both be dead. He saved them over and over and over again, and they both let him die.

Tommy huddles up against the wall and closes his eyes, trying not to think of him. He tries to sleep.

The next thing he knows are his lungs caving in, the taste of blood and salt water and black oil on his tongue, and he’s fighting blindly against the crushing darkness and fighting blankets and something solid and raised voices in the blurry dark room, he’s disoriented and breathless and desperate, and then he’s on his feet, and something’s coming for him and he’s running and it’s at his heels and he’s _running_ and when it inevitably catches him, he slams to the ground with a horrible, heavy, brutal _crash_.

There’s gravel against his lips, wet grass against his cheek, a smear of blood against his tongue, heavy pressure on his back, a hoarse voice in his ear. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Tommy’s heart slows a fraction, his head belatedly catching up. _Alex. Woking. Awake again._ “Get off me.”

Alex doesn’t let go though, keeping Tommy down with all of his weight on top of him. The ground is damp and rough under Tommy’s face, the chill of it seeping into his uniform. For the briefest, maddest moment, Tommy wants to close his eyes and let go, let Alex hold his broken pieces together. “You’re okay. What the fuck? You’re okay.”

Tommy struggles against his hold. It’s humming inside him again, loud and hungry and violent, like a bomb in a field waiting to detonate. Like a boy in a field trying not to fall apart. “Let go of me.”

Alex presses down even harder, his forearm pushing the breath out of Tommy’s lungs and the noise out of Tommy’s head. “You just had another one of those fits,” he whispers, his breath warm against Tommy’s ear. “You screamed again. You’re okay, it’s not real.”

Tommy struggles again, the bone in his elbow slamming against a rock. “Let go of me,” he begs. It’s too dangerous, this. “Please.”

Alex hesitates, his voice catching. “If you promise you won’t run again. I need to tell you something.”

“Get the fuck off of me.”

Alex rolls off of him and helps him to sit upright, even when Tommy’s shoving at him to get away. They're in a field, the dim lights from the barracks glowing in the distance. They’ve run far, but not far enough. Tommy can’t look at him.

Alex’s hand touches his knee, careful like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Tommy doesn’t know which one of them is shaking, if maybe they both are.

“It’s our fault he’s dead,” Tommy says, keeping his eyes averted. “He’s dead because of us.”

“He’s dead because of this fucking war,” Alex says, like that’s all that needs to be said about that, like he doesn't spend every night trying to pull him back out of the water. “I said I need to tell you something.”

Tommy hangs his head and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He saw the look in Alex’s eyes when he got back from the briefing earlier, the piece of paper he had balled up in his fist, the way he looked at Tommy’s mouth like they had finally run out of time. “Don’t.”

Alex sighs, squeezing Tommy’s knee. They’re both shaking. “Don't make it harder than it has to be.”

“Where are they sending you?”

“Up North. Doesn’t matter. We ship out in the morning.”

It doesn’t matter, because they’ll both be dead soon enough. This war isn’t going to end anytime soon. The Jerries are coming, sure as anything, no matter what anyone says. There’s no more luck for them, no more time, no more anything after tonight.

Alex’s hand comes to cup Tommy’s jaw, clammy and unsure. “You’re bleeding,” he says, his thumb sweeping just below the split in Tommy’s lip.

Tommy leans into his touch, trying to force himself to meet his eyes. He covers Alex’s hand on his knee with his own. It’s all there, humming inside him, terror and wrongness and _want_ all mingled up in the worst way. “Is that gonna stop you?”

Alex huffs out a breath, warm and damp against Tommy’s mouth. “No.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["Landmine" by Augustines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uPKBN6sIhe4)


End file.
